


Coughs and Sneezes

by feathertail



Category: Newsies (1992), Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Angst, Canon Era, Hanahaki AU, Homophobia, It likely wasn't going to anyway, It's up to them, M/M, This probably isn't going to have a happy ending, Unrequited Love, Will it have a happy ending?, i have no clue, sorry folks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-15
Updated: 2017-12-20
Packaged: 2019-02-03 02:26:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 9,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12739125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feathertail/pseuds/feathertail
Summary: @IGuessIWriteStuffNow wrote this brilliant Javey Hanahaki AU that I absolutely fell in love with, and was shocked to find there was no Sprace for it. So I wrote some. Enjoy?12/7/18 This story will no longer be continued.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Restricted Work] by [IGuessIWriteStuffNow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/IGuessIWriteStuffNow/pseuds/IGuessIWriteStuffNow). Log in to view. 



> This fic contains the Hanahaki disease AU!
> 
> What happens with it is that someone who has unrequited love for another begins to grow flowers in their lungs, and as their love remains unrequited, the flowers grow up their windpipe and eventually suffocate them. As a result of this, as the flowers grow, the sufferer coughs up flower petals, more and more as time goes on, and it gets worse if they spend time with the person they are in love with.
> 
> As with @IGuessIWriteStuffNow, the cure (which is surgical removal, though it also removes the person's love) has not yet been invented because this is set in the canon era (1890s), and also as not a major concern for anyone really, as only certain people can get it from their genes (borrowing @IGuess's idea here, hope they don't mind)
> 
> Blood is mentioned in this fic, but I wouldn't say it's gore? Just a lot of blood from coughing up petals :)
> 
> Also, you should totally go and read @IGuess's fic because it's amazing and explains hanahaki a lot better than I do and their writing is amazing!

It started in winter. Coughs and sneezes were rife in Brooklyn's lodging house, and Spot had been more than supporting the littler ones who were struggling in the cold. Those who couldn't afford it, he bought papes for so they could sell and keep the money for themselves, and when he could he organised those newsies that were still growing to give the smaller kids their old clothes. The problem with being among the other kids, and not as aloof as usual was that he caught colds. So he didn't think anything of the feather-light tickle in the back of his throat. He was Spot Conlon. He didn't stay in bed because of a little cough. Thankfully, he had help, he didn't have to run the whole of Brooklyn on his own. He had his second, and also his third, fourth, and fifth. There were the other older newsies who helped out when he asked, and Race. Sure, Race was from Manhattan, but that didn't stop him sneaking pennies into kids' pockets or deliberately playing bad in marbles or poker. And Spot saw all. But he didn't breathe a word. After all, he was Spot Conlon.

As the nights drew in, he boarded up the hole in his roof, through which he liked to watch the stars, because he was just too damn cold, and it seemed to be affecting his chest - he was still coughing, and occasionally there was some tightness in his breathing. Nothing to be unduly worried about, he just slept in his top layers of clothing too, not just his underclothes, and he no longer kicked off his blanket in the middle of the night, instead sleeping curled up under it, only his mop of hair peeking out. It was one of the disadvantages of having your own room, though he didn't complain, that there was no one else to bunk with, to share body heat with, and he didn't have the mass heat generated by hundreds of kids in the same room which kept the main bunkrooms at a cold temperature, and not just freezing as his was.  
That was why he was fairly quick to offer Racetrack a bed when a winter storm rushed in during a poker game. All the beds were full, all doubled up, and some tripled, or even quadrupled, and he was paying board for more than a dozen kids off the street, so he offered his own.  
"S'long as yous don't mind sharin'," he shrugged.

And so when Spot woke up with his limbs entwined with Racetrack, both crammed under his patchy blanket, sleeping in relative warmth for once, you couldn't really begrudge him wishing to stay a moment longer. But no. He slid out from under the blanket, tucking it around Racetrack to keep him warm, and crossed to the window to look out.

It was barely light, a curse of the winter, that made it hard to sell as many papes in daylight as in summer. And now, thick snow coated the streets liberally. Damnit. More than a few kids he knew didn't have shoes at all, and while most had something to put between their feet and the snow, it was painful for those who didn't. He sighed, tugging his suspenders up and over his shoulders, staring out in thought, swallowing to try to get rid of the now constant itch in the back of his throat. He was thankful it didn't snow often, then it could become a real problem. He grabbed his cane and, leaving Racetrack still sleeping, descended to the lower levels to wake up the other newsies.

"Up!" he yelled as he made his way along the bunks, banging his cane on the frames. "Up, boys, I needs to talk to yous!" And there was a flurry of movement as everyone fumbled to obey, more than a few beds creaking painfully under the weight of half a dozen newsies. And when everything fell silent, all eyes watching him expectantly, Spot hopped up to stand on the windowsill, imperiously observing his boys.  
"It's snowed," he said, and it was testament to just how worrying that was that the boys broke regs and turned to talk worriedly with each other. Spot allowed them a few moments, then tapped his cane loudly for order. "All yous with shoes, at least of some sorts, come stand over here," he pointed to his left with his cane. "All yous without, over here," and he pointed to his right, watching as they started to sort themselves, still a bit bleary, but awake because of the chill.

He swore softly under his breath as they finally stopped moving and he could count heads. There were way too many without shoes. He definitely couldn't pay food and board for all of them. He opened his mouth to speak, but broke off in a cough, covering his mouth with his fist. When he regained control, he tried again.  
"Eacha yous without shoes, find someone who has 'em. Go." He watched as the kids, mostly young ones, sought out other newsies, likely more experienced, to know the benefit of saving for shoes over getting a better bit of food one day. The sorting did start to descend into chaos, though, and Spot had to bang his cane again. "Right. Younger newsie sells mornin' edition, older sells evenin'. Yous got a problem, you-" he swallowed a cough. "Yous bring it to me. Those who ain't sellin' stay here an' behave. Yer partner'll bring you food." And he was grateful there weren't any outward protests, and he hopped down from the windowsill, stifling another cough into his hand. "Get to it, don' wanna miss the circulation bell," he said as he left, rapping his cane on the doorframe, watching them spring into action, talking.

Spot turned on his heel and headed back up and the steps to his attic room where he'd left Racetrack. He wasn't asleep anymore, but was staring out at the snow, one hand pressed against the window. Spot leaned on the door, smirking, waiting for Race to notice him. And when he did, it was worth it; he jumped, and clasped at his chest.  
"How long've you been there?" he asked, and Spot pushed off, padding into the room.  
"Long 'nough," he grinned, crossing to him. "Ain'tcha seem snow before, Racetrack?"  
"Have too," came the short response, along with a glare that Spot just laughed at.  
"Looks like yous is stayin' here a few days longer," he added, nodding at the snow. "I ain't lettin' no one cross the Bridge like this." He shook his head as Race began to protest. "I's the king, yous do as I says." And then he broke off into coughing, chest convulsing. It hadn't been this bad before, and he felt Race patting him on the back, as if that might help. He lowered the hand he had used to cover his mouth with, and turned curiously at Race's sharp intake of breath. "What?" he queried, and Race just picked up his wrist and indicated Spot's hand to him. Confused, Spot looked down, and blinked at what he saw.

Blood.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spot's coughing gets worse, and Race finds out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I edited the notes of the previous chapter to explain this au (Hanahaki) so please check that out! The actual content of the chapter hasn't changed, just the tags and notes.

Spot ignored what Race had pointed out to him, simply wiped his hand off and found a rag to cough into for the rest of the day. But by the end of the day, the rag was more blood than mud. But as usual, he kept himself to himself, and retreated to his room for peace and quiet once he had heard about the day's sellings and how well his plan had worked, and an update on the borders - he was keeping a close eye on them after a spot of trouble a week or so back. He paid board for two dozen boys (and that was a drain on his resources), then fled to his room.

Once up there, he let the coughs he had hidden from his boys pour from his chest, body convulsing with the strength of his body's rejection of whatever bacteria was in his lungs, so much so that he was left gripping the sides of the sink he was coughing into with white knuckles. When, finally, his fit ended, he stood, still bent over for a minute, breathing heavily. He froze as he heard movement behind him, and whirled to face whoever it was.

It was only Race. Hands up and looking apologetic for inadvertently concealing himself from Spot, even though the Brooklyn king hadn't thought to check if the Manhattan newsie was still around, in the bedroom he technically had as much right to be in as Spot now he was staying here until the snow cleared. He opened his mouth, as if to begin speaking, when his eyes caught on the sanguine coating of Spot's lips, and he surged forwards. Spot leaned backwards and yanked on the tap to wash away the blood, but Race was too quick, and he didn't miss the amount of scarlet swirling down the drain.   
"Damnit, Spot," he breathed, finding the rag shoved into the Brooklyn newsie's pocket and wiping away the blood from his lips, almost tenderly, like one would when tending the scraped knee of a child. "You need to look after yourself."  
Spot caught the hand and confiscated the rag, shoving it back into his pocket. "I's fine, Racetrack," he insisted, swallowing thickly through the sickening metallic tang in his mouth. "Jus' gotta chill is all."   
Race frowned at him. "You ain't just got a chill, Spot. Yous is coughin' up-" he was muffled by Spot's hand over his mouth.  
"Don't say it. And you ain't to tell any of the boys, ya hear me?" He released him when the Manhattan newsie nodded behind the hand, then turned to hack up another mouthful of blood. He and Race both stared at the sink, and the fresh white flower petal that swam innocently in the sea of red.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The snow clears, Spot gets worse, and Race consults Davey. Because he must know something, right?

When the snow finally cleared, Race was pelting across the Bridge without even having sold the morning edition. Somebody had to know why Spot was coughing up flower petals, because they sure as hell didn’t. Spot didn’t want his newsies to know, for fear of people trying to overthrow him when he was weak, but it was harder to explain why he spent less and less time with his newsies, using Race as a messenger to his second to explain what needed doing, and why, when they did see him, he was growing as pale as the snows that had just passed. Why he couldn’t manage a full sentence without coughing into a rag. Why he saw Race when all the Brooklyn newsies were turned away.  
  
The Manhattan newsies were ecstatic to see him, thankful that he hadn’t been buried under the snows as they had feared, but had been in Brooklyn the whole time, as they had hoped. But he didn’t hang around long, instead grabbing Davey’s sleeve and tugging him outside into an alley, where they could talk in private.  
“Race, what’s wrong?” Davey asked quickly. He’d never seen him so worried.  
“I- Davey, you knows about illnesses an’ stuff, right?” Race asked, fidgeting on the spot.  
“Well, a bit. Only what we learn in school, why?”  
“Is there- is there a one where you- you coughs up flowers?” He kept his eyes firmly fixed on the ground, chewing his lip.  
“I don’t think so- no, wait...” Race’s head shot up as Davey thought. “There is one... I can’t remember...” He scrunched up his nose as he tried to find the name in his memory. “Handa- Hane- Hanahaki. That’s it. Flowers grow in your lungs and gradually suffocate - symptoms are coughing up blood and petals, shortness of breath - it usually takes a few weeks to-” he broke off. “Race, who has it? Do you have it?” he suddenly grew a lot more concerned.  
“What? No, I ain’t got it. What d’you mean, takes a few weeks. Takes a few weeks to go away?” His eyes searched Davey’s in concern.  
“It takes a few weeks for the flowers to completely suffocate the person,” Davey replied quietly, watching as Race paled. “Race, who has it? Who has Hanahaki?”  
“Spot...” Race whispered before he could help himself.  
Davey’s eyes widened. “Spot? Wow. Never thought he’d get attached like that.”  
“Like what?” Race snapped, taking the news that his best friend was dying badly.  
“Hanahaki isn’t anything that can be caught or passed down, though you can have more of a tendency to get it within families. Race, Hanahaki is a result of unrequited love. So Spot... he loves someone, and they don’t love him back.”  
“So, if they love him back, he’s cured? He ain’t gonna die no more?”  
“Well, yes, if you put it like that...”  
Davey had barely finished speaking when Race was shooting out of the alley, pelting back towards Brooklyn, and his best friend. He was going to save him.  
  


* * *

  
Spot had barely managed to sell all his papes that morning, he’d been coughing so badly. He’d had to employ the tactic he rarely used, only when business was slow, snatching money from people’s pockets and replacing it with a paper, running away yelling “Sorry, sir, ain’t go no change!” When he could usually peddle mot of his papers in a couple of hours, maximum, he was out til lunchtime trying to get rid of his last fifty.  
  
When he returned to the lodging house, Race was there, waiting for him.   
“Who is it?” he asked, and Spot looked very confused.  
“It’s me? Spot?” he replied, sitting down heavily on his bunk and lifting the bucket they’d manage to pilfer, coughing heavily into it, blood spattering the petals already piling high in it, adding a dozen more petals with each convulsion of his throat.  
“Not what I meant,” Race said softly, coming to sit next to him. “Who are you in love with.”  
Spot choked on a petal as he scoffed. “Me? In love? I ain’t in love with nobody, Racetrack. You seen me with any girls, ever?” Race had to admit he hadn’t. “Exactly,” Spot nodded, crossing to the sink to try to wash out the taste of blood. It never worked. “Why’s yous so interested in my love life, anyways?”  
“I saw Davey about the petals,” Race admitted after a minute, and Spot turned savagely on his heel.  
“You what?” he spat. “I said don’ tell nobody!”  
“But Davey helped!” Race contradicted. “He told me what it was, how we could fix it!”  
Spot snorted. “Fix it, sure. I’m coughin’ up flowers, Race. Ain’t no explanation, and ain’t no cure.”  
“But there is,” Race insisted slowly, standing up and padding over.  
  
“This,” he said, gesturing to Spot’s chest and face, shirt flecked with spots of blood from backspatters when he didn’t quite get all of it in the bucket. “It’s called Hana- Hana somethin’. Hanahaki. There’s flowers growin’ in your lungs.” He placed a hand on Spot’s chest to keep him there as he scoffed and went to turn away. “I knows it sounds ridiculous, Spot. Just hear me out. Davey wouldn’t lie about this.” At least he hoped so.  
“Hanahaki’s caused by unrequited love. You loves someone, an’ they don’t love you back. An’ in a few weeks, if they still don’t love you back, you’ll die.” He didn’t meet Spot’s eyes. “So we gotta make whoever it is love you. But we can only do that if you tell me who it is.”  
He finally looked up at his friend. “So who is it?”  
Spot looked confused. “I don’t know.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brooklyn is beginning to decline, and Race is becoming desperate, so he recruits Davey in an attempt to save the day.

Brooklyn was starting to decline without the constant presence of their King. His second struggled with the control of the masses for so long as Spot grew steadily unable to sell his papes, let alone hold court all day. There were murmurs of rebellion, of how easy it would be to off him while he was so weak, and much as they tried to quell the revolt, it was always there, bubbling under Brooklyn’s skin, a snake waiting for the right time to strike.   
  
Spot’s coughing was good for business, up to the point where he spasmed so much in his coughing fits that he dropped all his papes and his coins. There was also the fear of his customers that he had some sort of a plague that they would catch if they bought his papes, and he couldn’t employ his “got no change” tactic, as he had barely any breathing space with the flowers growing inside his lungs, and so definitely could not flee from angry customers, or the bulls. Racetrack had insisted on him selling at Sheepshead with him so that he could keep an eye on him, ensure he sold all his papes, and was growing more concerned by the day. There were days when Spot could barely leave his bucket, hacking blood and petals up pretty constantly, and so he fought to sell twice the number of papes, thankful when his regular customers, and more, bought from him.  
  
But even as Race cared for him, helped him in the hope of easing his pain, Spot grew worse. His skin was whiter than their grubby shirts, and all hours of the day he was wheezing. It was evident every breath he took was painful, how could it not be, with flowers crawling up your throat, but he glared at anyone who said he couldn’t do anything, and maintained that he wasn’t in love, no matter what Racetrack said.  
  
But Race didn’t accept that, _couldn_ _’t_ accept that. He couldn’t let his best friend die. And so one evening, when he and Spot were discussing the day up in Spot’s attic room, there came a knock at the door that Race bounced up to answer, evidently expecting someone. And whoever Spot was expecting, David Jacobs, the Walking Mouth of Manhattan was low on his list of expectations.   
“Mouth,” he greeted, straightening quickly, unwilling to show weakness. His eyes flicked to the door as Race let himself out, the door clicking shut ominously behind him. He stifled retching up another mouthful of flowers. “What can I do you for?”  
  
Davey sighed as he stepped forwards awkwardly, hands twisting. “It’s okay. You haven’t got to put on a brave face, Spot. I know... I know what Hanahaki does. You can relax, I’ve seen it first-hand. I’m not judging you, don’t worry.” He waited for Spot to relax, and when that didn’t happen, he pressed on, a little more nervously than before.  
  
“Race is worried. Really worried about you. So we figured, well, if you wouldn’t tell Race who you’re in love with, maybe you could tell me. I don’t know many people that you and Race both know, so it’s not like I’m going to judge-” he broke off as Spot raised a hand, giving in to the temptation of having to cough up more petals. Then Spot spoke.  
“I don’t know where you and Racer’ve got this idea from, Mouth. I ain’t in love, an’ that’s a fact.”  
  
Davey sighed. This was going to be difficult. If Spot wasn’t admitting it to himself, or worse, didn’t know he was in love, it was going to be even harder to convince him that the other person loved him back.  
“Okay, then. Let’s start simple. Would you die for anyone?”  
“Yes,” Spot answered simply, rolling his eyes as Davey beamed.  
“Who?”  
“My boys,” he shrugged. “I’s leader, I gotta be prepared to die for Brooklyn, Mouth. Ain’t no good if you can’t do that.”  
Davey sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Okay. Let’s try a different tactic. If you were going to be trapped on a desert island for the rest of your life, and you could have one person with you, who would it be?”  
Spot rolled his eyes again. “Why the hell would I be trapped on a desert island, Mouth?”  
“Just answer the question, please?”  
“I dunno. Some scab, so’s I could beat ‘em up.”  
“You wouldn’t want anyone you’re friends with or anything?”  
“Don’t want to put ‘em through bein’ alone with me, do I?”  
Davey paused, then offered, “Who would you least want to put through that?”  
There was a slight pause. Then, “Race? ‘E puts up with me too much as’t is.”  
Davey nodded slowly, but he needed to be sure before he jumped to any conclusions.  
  
“Who would you trust with your life?”  
“My second.”  
“Anyone else?”  
“Race.”  
  
“Who would you trust with Brooklyn?”  
“My second.”  
“And?”  
“...Race.”  
  
“If everyone was guaranteed to die but you could save one person, who would you save?”  
“Morbid, Mouth.”  
“Spot.”  
“Fine. I guess... Race?”  
  
“Who would you miss most if they went away?”  
“Certainly not you, cheese it.”  
“Just answer the question.”  
“Pro’ly Race.”  
  
“Pick someone to share a bed with for the rest of your life.”  
“What the actual- You know the answer.”  
“Say it.”  
“Racetrack.”  
  
“Have you ever wanted to kiss Race?”  
“Race.”  
“Spot?”  
“What? I just assumed the answer would be Race.”  
“... You’re impossible.”  
  
Davey sighed as he finished his semi-interrogation. “Spot, do you understand now?”  
He glanced at the King of Brooklyn from his seat next to him on the mattress of the bunk. “Do you understand why I was asking you those questions?”  
Spot nodded mutely, then paused to hack up more petals into the bucket. “Yeah,” he muttered when he finished.  
Davey stood, happy and yet not happy. He’d figured out the problem, but he didn’t know if Race returned what Spot was feeling. And that... could turn it worse.  
“Shall I send him up?” he asked, and quietly went to fetch Race at Spot’s short, sharp nod.  
  
Spot lay back on his blood-spattered sheets from night-time coughing and sighed. That was a large development. Now he just... had to hope.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spot tells Race.

By the way Race pelted up the stairs and careened into the room, Spot could only assume Davey had told him he needed him urgently. Otherwise he would have lazed up the steps like usual. He raised an eyebrow as Race skidded to a stop, then backtracked to shut the door.  
“So?” he asked, breathlessly.  
“So?” Spot mimicked, turning to hack into the bucket again. When he finished, Race was by his side, rubbing his back to help him through it, cup of water in his hand for him to try to wash away the metallic taste of his own impending death, though it never worked. Well, he was fucked.  
“Davey said you’d figured it out,” Race elaborated impatiently. “So, who is it?”  
Spot shrugged off the hand still sitting on his shoulder, staring at the floor.  
“ _Spot_ ,” Race urged. “Who is it?”  
  
“I’s a fairy, turns out,” Spot finally spoke, and a badly timed coughing fit sent him hunched over the bucket, giving Race time to process that information.  
“You mean-”  
“Yeah, I means I’s in love wit a boy. Yous got a problem wit that, Racetrack?”  
“I… I don’t know. Who?”  
Spot paused for a long time, turning his eyes to meet Race’s so he could see that this was no joke. “’S you.”  
  
There was no talk for a long time, and the only noise was the newsies down below or Spot coughing into his bucket. Race didn’t help him out this time.  
“Since when was yous-?” he asked, trying to understand.  
“I guess a while,” Spot spat, blood dripping from his lips from a particularly harsh fit. “I mean, I’s apparently been in love witchu for a while.” And his body had realised before him.  
“Right,” Race nodded, and fell back into silence, staring anywhere but at Spot.  
“An’ here yous was sayin’ they’d love me back sure thing,” Spot laughed derisively, straightening up, reaching to punch Race’s shoulder in jest, but Race pulled away, standing up.  
“Don’t.”  
Spot looked at his best friend, confused, and hurt.  
“I’s not a fairy. I’s sorry, Spot. But I ain’t in love witchu. I- yous must be in love wit someone else.”  
And Spot watched as he fled the room. His airways constricted more, and he could have sworn he felt more tendrils of plant crawling up his throat even as he watched, and he hunched over the bucket, retching and hacking, body rejecting the… rejection. And he would deny the tiny droplets of saltwater that fell upon the blood-spattered petals. But now he knew. He knew he was going to die. And there was no stopping it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's short, I just wanted to get it up to this point. Update soon!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath.

Spot _had_ thought his life, his condition, couldn’t get much worse. But boy, was he wrong.

 

The physical, verbal, in person nature of his love for his best friend manifested in a matter of hours, with thorns and sharp stems tearing into his throat, clambering up his windpipe, and blossoming in his lungs.

 

By the first hour, he had coughed and retched up two buckets of blood, gunk, and those damned flowers.

 

By the second hour, he was pale and feverish, barely able to speak for the choking flowers in his chest.

 

By the third hour, every rattling breath brought up the petals of his doom, and he could barely go a second without needed a wheezing breath.

 

Rumour spread like wildfire around Brooklyn, that the King was dying. Many, knowing the usual ascension of Brooklyn Kings, claimed foul play, and called for whoever had taken down Spot to declare himself and take the throne. Some, using common sense, called for Spot’s second in command to ascend, knowing most illnesses (for that was most logical, in these times, and with Spot, who had fought off many an attempted successor) couldn’t be cured by a newsie’s funds, not even Spot Conlon’s, there was no money available to buy any sort of medicine, let alone the lifesaving stuff. And illness and foul play were only the two most popular theories.

 

And Brooklyn was falling into civil war. Bands were forming and starting fights on every street corner. The bulls were trying to retain control, but failing miserably. The body count was rising, and Spot wasn’t even dead yet.

 

Davey could see Brooklyn was crumbling from all directions, carefully nurtured foundations cracking under the pressure Spot’s second couldn’t withstand. And all the solutions he could see needed one key element - Spot. But Spot was dying, and not in the usual fashion, not gutted in some alley, overpowered by a newsie able to take his place, but cut down and thrashed by some psychological ailment made physical, combined with the homophobic ideals of society, and Race’s rejection. Something had to be done.

 

Racetrack Higgins could be hard to find when he didn’t want to be found, but Davey managed to track him down, but not after bribing and pleading with a number of newsies.  
“Race!” he yelled, watching as the newsie in question jumped, then tried to flee. But Davey was strategic; he had him boxed. He stalked closer.  
“You’re a jackass, you know that?” he accused.  
“What?” Race returned, offended.  
“Brooklyn’s crumbling. There are folks, boys, kids _Les_ _’ age_ dying on the street out there.”  
“Oh, and that’s my fault.”  
“It _is._ ”  
“Just because he’s my best friend don’t mean I’s a fairy for ‘im! Doesn’t mean I love ‘im!” Race spat, waving his hands in agitation.  
“But he’s your best friend-”  
“And a fairy.”  
“So?”  
“What do you mean, so? There ain’t no further explanation needed!”  
“He’s still your best friend, Race. Whether he likes girls or boys.”  
“’e likes _me_!”  
“I know!” Davey shouted for the first time, but stopped himself. “I know,” he continued, quieter this time. “But you have to save him.”  
“I ain’t no fairy!”  
Davey slapped him. He was just as surprised as Race, and stared at his own hand as if it had moved of its own volition. But then his irritation cracked back into gear, stepping into Race’s personal space and grabbing him by the front of his shirt.

“Racetrack Higgins, you are going to listen to me, so help me G-d. Brooklyn is falling. And with it, what do you think will happen? Brooklyn will fall. Spot Conlon will die. All the newsies dependent on him will die. All the other cities dependent on Brooklyn will fall. All those newsies will die. Stop being selfish, Race! It’s not all about you, it never has been, and it never will be! You have to think of the bigger picture here! You’re the only one who can stop all of that from happening, so for G-d’s sake, go do it!”

 

 

Race went.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not where I wanted it to be at the end of this chapter, but I promised another update because the last was so short. Hope you enjoyed! Kudos and comments are very much appreciated <3


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Race reaches Spot.

Spot was on his front on the floor when Race skidded into his room, having run full pelt from Manhattan. The Brooklyn King was barely propping himself up on his forearms as he struggled to breathe as he regurgitated mouthful after mouthful of flower petals and blood. He lifted his head, eyes wide and scared, blood dripping from cracked lips. But he couldn't hold the gaze for long, barely able to wheeze a breath before he was back retching.

Race sank to his knees beside Spot, trying not to get in the rather large puddle of blood. "Spot-" he croaked, cleared his throat, and tried again  
"Spot."  
Slowly, Spot lifted his eyes to Race's again, still full of fear; he knew he was vulnerable, in more ways than one. He could feel tendrils of plant curling into the roof of his mouth, felt the petals brushing against his tongue every time he swallowed. He could no longer talk, only wheeze for breath. It would be so easy to take the throne now, and he knew it, and he was scared for his boys - he could hear what was going on in the streets. He wasn't deaf, just dying.

Race stared at him, and it took another of Spot's fits to jerk him back into reality.  
"Spot, I _love_ you," he murmured, as if only realising this for the first time. "I _love you_ ," he repeated louder as Spot choked on a petal and globule of blood.  
"I was blind before, but you dying- it made me realise- I love you. More than I'd love me own mama, if I knew 'er. Please, believe me, Spot. I love you."

Spot watched him warily, frightened, terrified Race was mocking him. And he could never see through Race's bluff face either. But he believed, because he wanted to believe, he needed to believe, and as he began to weep again, tears of joy dripping into the foul puddle of blood and its grisly floating petals of death, he could start to breathe again.

He wiped his mouth on his bare arm, and looked at Race. "Fuck you for makin' me almost die to get that," he rasped, punching the other newsie none-too-gently.  
Race only laughed, pulling him in for a tight embrace, thankfully avoiding the puddle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're not done yet...


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The calm before the storm.

Their first kiss was awkward, stilted. It was late in the evening; Spot had only just returned from restoring order in Brooklyn, and although it wasn’t quite fully settled, a lot of soakings later generally all was well. Spot made sure to bang on the door of the bedroom, smirking to himself as all his boys jumped and stared at him.  
“Be’ave,” he snarled, pointing his cane at a few particulars. “Or else.”

Then he carried on up the stairs, cane tapping on every other step. He shut the door to his room behind him with a click, smirking again as Racetrack jumped from where he had been fixing a new sheet on the bed.   
“Housewife,” he chuckled, checking the windows were shut before letting his cane lean against the wall and padding over to him. He hesitated for a moment before tugging the other newsie closer by his braces.   
“C’n I...?” he asked quietly, eyes flicking up from Race’s lips to his eyes before back down again, only moving on Race’s nod. He leaned in close and pressed their lips together, stiff lips against stiff lips, Spot cautious, Race unsure.

After a second, he pulled back. “C’mon, Racer. I ain’t kissed many people, but even I knows that ain’t how yous kisses.”  
Race’s jaw set, and then he was almost on top of him, one hand keeping him still by the jaw, the other tugging him in by the him, and his mouth was pushed up against Spot’s, open and hot and wet and almost desperate in its feeling. Spot groaned despite himself, and kissed back the best way he knew how. And it must have been good, because Race let out a noise as well, shifting up against Spot as he made it.

Spot grinned as he pulled back this time. “I loves yous,” he confessed, hooking a finger in Race’s braces.  
“Love you too,” Race returned, following as Spot tugged him in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little short, but I wanted it separate from next chapter.


	9. Chapter 9

Things had pretty much settled in Brooklyn now Spot had been back on the throne for a few days, watching over his boys and the rest of his kingdom. Those who didn’t respond to him were... swiftly dealt with. And each night he would return from his patrol to see Race in their room, waiting for him, and he would shut the door, lock it, and then straddle him and kiss their cares away until Race had to go back to Brooklyn, or until they got too tired to carry on, in which case they would just flop down sideways, usually one on top of the other, and trade “I love you”s until they fell asleep.

It was on one of these occasions that Spot finished his patrol a little earlier, and, upon finding Race not in their room, decided to sit on his windowsill and wait for him, looking out over Brooklyn. He was lost in his thoughts when he heard quiet voices coming from the roof. Curious, who the hell was going to sit on a freezing roof at night?

Apparently the Mouth, and Spot had no clue why he was over here, and Race. Well, that solved the question of where he was. Spot listened in to what was supposedly so secret they had to hide on the freezing cold room to prevent it being overheard.  
“-old you yesterday, Dave. I can’t keep doin’ it. It’s- I’m not a fairy!”  
“Race, do you want to be responsible for everything falling apart?”  
“’Course not, but Davey, it makes me sick jus’ lookin’ at him now. An’ I feel like garbage when he’s kissin’ me. It’s unnatural, Dave. Look, okay, maybe it isn’t for you, stop pullin’ that face, but for me it ain’t, okay?”

Spot sat frozen on his seat, unable to believe what he was hearing. And, well, being Spot Conlon, he couldn’t let it lie. He swung out and clambered up the outside, onto the roof, clearing his throat as he straightened; both Davey and Race startled.   
“Mind if I has a word alone, Mouth?” he grunted, and Davey nodded, scarpering.

When he was gone, Spot folded his arms, wishing he’d brought his cane with him so he could tap it; it was more a nervous tic than anything else, though it was also an intimidation tactic, he had to admit that.  
“So, Racetrack. Yous got somethin’ to tell me?”  
Race looked petrified.  
“Yous wanna deny anythin’ I jus’ heard?”  
Race shook his head, it seemed the easiest way out of the whole situation.  
“Then get out of Brooklyn, and stay out,” Spot snarled, spitting at the no-longer-Brooklyn newsie. “Don’t let me hears of yous comin’ back over that Bridge, yous hears me?”  
Race nodded, and scarpered even quicker than Davey at Spot’s dismissing nod.

Spot made his way down to address the rest of his newsies. “Mouth and Racetrack are on their way out for good,” he announced. “Chuckles, go see they leaves.” He rapped his retrieved cane against the ground to make sure he had everyone’s attention.   
“From now on, our borders is closed. No-one comes in, no-one goes out. Ya hears me? Yous seein’ anyone trespassin’, what do you do?”  
Silence.  
“You soaks ‘em until they’s runnin’ back where they’s come from with they’s’s tails between they’s’s legs!” he yelled, banging his cane for emphasis. That broke the spell, and the whole of the Brooklyn lodging house was lit up with riotous cheers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sorry in the slightest


	10. Chapter 10

Brooklyn remained closed from then on, allowing no-one within its boundaries. There were more than a few Bronx and Queens boys that were badly soaked when they tried to cross the border; several didn’t make it through the night. Brooklyn became a feared place, reigning over the rest of New York with a fist of iron, controlling the other cities with terror.

Likewise, Spot Conlon ruled Brooklyn, mercilessly. Any rebellion he crushed brutally, taking down even his second with his own hand as he rebelled against him, returning more nights than not bloody to his room to sleep alone with a locked door. Brooklyn thrived, despite the fear constantly in everyone’s minds, profiting more than before when they were selling. And so there seemed no reason to re-open the borders; everything was well in Brooklyn.

Back in Manhattan, Race was struggling. So used to selling in Sheepshead, a prime selling spot, and beating many Brooklyn boys in card and dice games, he was struggling to sell his usual amount of papes, and was losing more than he was taking in his games. 

So, naturally, he decided to try to get into Brooklyn.

He took a back route, of course, and snuck through the smaller streets of Brooklyn until he was a few blocks away from the lodging house. He began to relax, thinking the worst was through, to his detriment, as he didn’t hear the footsteps behind him until his legs had been swept out from under him and he was on the ground with two Brooklyn boys on top of him, smashing him into the ground. He tried to defend himself, but one had a knee on his neck, and he couldn’t breathe, let alone struggle up against them. His gaze started to blur and flicker after only a minute, and the boy kneeling on his neck spat in his face.  
“Get back to ‘hattan, filthy fairy,” he growled, as his companion’s fist connected with Race’s jaw again.  
“Yous knows Brooklyn’s closed,” he continued. “Types like yous don’t belong here.”

Finally, they let him up, yanking him to his feet and pushing him towards the Bridge, or at least in the direction of it. He barely made it a few steps before he blacked out and fell face first into a puddle. The Brooklyn boys laughed harshly and sauntered forwards to give his body a few good kicks before returning to their patrol of the area.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Violence/assault and angst warning - will be in end notes to avoid spoilers

_Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap._

 

Race was sure he was going mad. His head ached, temples throbbing painfully in time with his heartbeat and the rhythmic tapping that he was sure he could hear. Everywhere else was sore, too, ribs, arms, legs. In his mouth was the bitter taste of mud along with the sharp tang of coppery blood. And he wasn’t sure he wanted to open his eyes.

 

_Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap._

 

Race groaned, shifting slightly, cracking open his eyes. He tried to lift himself up, but he barely managed to prop himself up on his elbows for a few seconds before slumping back down, belly first. There was a puddle of filthy water only a little way from his face; he supposed he had to be grateful he hadn’t passed out face first into it and drowned.

 

_Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap._

 

“Oh, shut _up_ ,” Race whined. The tapping was incessant, relentless, beating on the pain of his headache. And yet, he didn’t expect it to stop; he’d thought it was just a figment of his addled brain.

 

Somehow, the silence was worse, because if someone really had been making that godawful noise, now he couldn’t tell where they were.  
“Aw, goddamnit,” he muttered, and tried lifting his head, blinking wearily through the mud in his eyes to try and see if there was someone around.

 

_Tap._

_Tap._

_Tap._

 

If Race had had any strength whatsoever, he would have whipped around at the sound progressing at a leisurely pact towards him from behind, the tapping slowly increasing in volume as whoever it was. As it was, beaten and broken as _he_ was, he had to lie there, close his eyes, and wish for a happy fate.

 

But it was not to be, of course.

 

“Did yous forget what I’s said to you last time I saw yous, Racetrack?”

 

Race’s blood ran cold. Spot. Shit. He groaned as a boot connected with his ribs.  
“Yous is alive, so yous can answer me. Ain’t a question with no answer.”  
Race shook his head. “No. No, Spot, I didn’t forget.”  
“Well, I seems to be rememberin’ tellin’ you to scram, an’ not come back, an’ that if I ever ‘eard of yous crossing the Bridge again, there’s’d be trouble.”  
Race got another kick to the ribs for not answering quickly enough.  
“You did,” he wheezed, nodding and coughing.  
“Then why’s yous here?”  
“I been sellin’ bad, I- I thought, since we’s were pals-”

 

He broke off as a harsh boot to the ribs rolled him over onto his back.  
“We ain’t pals, Racetrack,” Spot spat, leaning over him, resting on his cane, which must have been what was tapping. Even as Race squinted up at him, and with his face cast into shadows, Spot looked unwell. Not as pale and feeble as he had been when he was bedridden with Hanahaki, and he wasn’t coughing as much as he should have been at this stage, because surely he couldn’t still believe Race loved him, not after he had heard the truth on the rooftop.

 

“We ain’t never been pals, Racetrack,” Spot was saying now, jerking Race’s attention back to him and his words. “Yous give me one good reason why I shouldn’t kill yous right now, leave the body for the rats.” And Race could definitely believe him, seeing as he’d now leant back and was casually whetting the blade of a pocketknife he must have stolen from somewhere. But as he moved back, more light than shadow fell on his face, and Race could see his skin was sallow and pitted, more yellow than white or pink, waxy, and sweat glimmered where it had never graced Spot’s skin before.

 

“You look sick, Spot,” he croaked, propping himself up on his elbows.  
Spot scoffed. “Nope. Gotta work harder than that, Racetrack. I could kill a man wit’ my guts hangin’ out if I wanted.”

 

Race was starting to get a little frightened now, because Spot was testing the blade’s sharpness on the pad of his thumb. “Jack’ll be mad, you’ll have a war with Manhattan-”  
“An’ we’ll beat ‘em easy. We overpowers yous ten to one, and we’s better at soakin’ too.”

 

“You love me. I love you.”  
Spot stilled. “’Scuse me?”  
Race took a shaky breath. “You’re in love with me. So you can’t kill me. Because you’ll die. Of Hanahaki.”

 

A yelp sprang unbidden from his lungs as pain shot through his abused body with the force of the blow Spot delivered with his cane, sending him sprawling in the dirt.  
“I ain’t no fairy, Racetrack,” he spat, lip curling, advancing slowly even as Race tried to scrabble backwards, away from him. “Yous is, an’ yous’s kind ain’t welcome ‘ere. I’s warned yous. My boys’s warned yous. An’ yet-”

 

He broke off as a low whistle came from the alley end.   
“Spot!” one of his boys yelled. “A gang’f Bronx’ve crossed the borders! They ain’t backin’ down, we needs you!”  
“Wit’ yous in a sec,” Spot hollered back, turning back to Race, who had scrambled back even further when he had been given the opportunity.  
“Spot, we’s needin’ yous now!”  
“Fine!” He yelled. “I’s comin’!”

 

And without the time to fully finish his business with Race, he just took two long strides forwards, knelt to Race’s level, cupped his face with one hand, and with the other drove his knife home in Race’s gut.   
“Say hello to the Mouth and Jacky-boy for me,” he sneered as he stood, then turned on his heel and strode out of the alley, dismissing any questions his boys had with a smack over the head with his cane, wiping his knife blade on his breeches to free it of blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Spot finds Race passed out and kicks him around for a bit before stabbing him
> 
> Be grateful I found a way for him to only get hurt, otherwise he would really have been left to the rats...


	12. Chapter 12

Race clutched at his abdomen and watched Spot go, tears welling in his eyes. Blood seeped against his fingers, and he struggled for breath, panic and pain seizing his body and coursing through his veins. He clutched tighter at his wound, convulsing a little, squeezing his eyes shut and wishing desperately that the pain would go away. But, of course, to no avail, and after a few minutes, hand now coated in blood, he struggled to his feet.

 

He staggered in the opposite direction Spot had gone in, tears trickling down his face. He didn't know how he made it to the Bridge, much less how he got over it, and he could barely see by the time he stumbled into a fellow newsie.  
"Race," Romeo's face swam before his eyes, and Race blinked thickly.  
"Race, Race, oh, fuck. Fuck, you're bleeding. Race, what happened? Oh, Jesus. Specs!"  
Race swayed where he stood, barely, supported by Romeo, and was able to stay conscious long enough to hear the slap of running feet before he blacked out and became a dead weight against his friend's shoulder.

 

When Race woke, it was to immense pain tearing through his abdomen. He cried out as he felt hands applying pressure on his wound, trying to squirm away, tears leaking from his eyes again.  
"Race, no, stay still," speech rang in his ears through his cries, but he could not help but writhe, wails turning to screams as his wound seared with pain. A strong hand splayed on his chest to keep him down, two more catching his wrists and two more his ankles.  
"Race, it's okay, we's sortin' yous, 's okay, Racer."  
But Race fell limp once more, pain swelling so much that his sight faded to black and he retained consciousness no longer.

 

When he woke once more, the whole of his body throbbed, but thankfully he was no longer in agony. He cracked open his eyes, trying to prop himself up on his elbows, protesting the hand that quickly appeared on his breast to keep him still, but obeyed it nonetheless.  
"Hey, Race," Jack spoke from beside him. "You wants to tell me why yous is half gutted?"

 

"Not really," Race grunted, tugging up his shirt to examine the cloth wrapped around and tied across his abdomen, sneaking a peek underneath it at the... sewn up edges of his wound. He looked up at Jack, questions in his eyes.  
"Sarah, Davey's sister, sewn you up, Racer. Wasn' easy, wit' yous kickin' an' screamin' like yous was. But we's got you fixed." Jack smiled and patted his shoulder. "Now, yous gonna tell me who stuck ya?"

 

"I..." Race mumbled, looking up as Davey entered, quickly kneeling next two Jack. "I's fine, Davey, before yous asks. I..." he sighed at the look Jack gave him. "Spot Conlon," he muttered, and there was a sharp intake of breath from Davey.  
"Bastard," he muttered under his breath, and Jack nodded along.

 

Race told them everything, with only a little prompting needed, from why he had gone to Brooklyn, to how he had been beaten up in the alley, to how Spot had looked grey, and hollow, and ill, to how he had knifed him savagely. By the end of his tale, it was a unanimous decision that something was very, very wrong with the King of Brooklyn.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We learn (kinda) why Spot was so cold two chapters ago

A dark, dingy alley in the back streets of Brooklyn, close to the Bronx border, seemed no place for the King to be going on a stroll, even if he was on patrol; not even patrols were led here, even the Brooklyn newsies feared who lurked in the shadows.

 

And so did Spot, even though he didn’t show it, strolling confidently down the alley to the end, one hand on his cane, tucked neatly into his braces, the other in his pocket, displaying an air of nonchalance, hiding that he was tightly gripping the hilt of his knife, the same blade that he had not two hours ago wielded against Bronx intruders, and not three hours ago embedded it in the stomach of an already-downed, defenceless, _beautiful_ newsie he had once loved.

 

Guilt was swelling in his chest even as he walked, but he swallowed it down, refusing to admit to the emotion. He startled at the sudden appearance of a figure from the shadows, but recovered quickly.  
“You have it?” he asked brusquely.  
“Of course I have it, do you have my coin?”  
“Once I’ve taken it, you can have it,” Spot returned, as always, holding up his dollar.

 

He snatched the little bottle from the grip of the hooded figure, quickly downing the grim mixture inside, keeping a passive face, although he wanted to grimace. He waited for it to take effect, to return him to the efficient King he had been before all of this _love_ business had begun. Once his slate had been wiped, he nodded briskly, tossed the bottle back, and flicked the dollar to the figure, confidently turning his back and striding out of the alley.

 

Gone were the days when Spot Conlon loved. Now were the days when Spot Conlon ruled with an iron fist, with no emotions of a fairy to weigh him down and restrict him. He was to be Great once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know ultimately basically where I'm going with this, but might need a little assistance with getting there; if you guys could leave a comment suggesting what you'd like to see in future chapters I'll certainly take ideas into account. Cheers!


	14. Chapter 14

The evening after the scrap with Race saw Spot shut up once more in his room at the top of the Brooklyn Lodging House, staring out of the window across his kingdom. He stood stock still, eyes narrowed as he watched everything. Then, out of the blue, he convulsed, and hunched, cowing away from the window as he staggered over to the sink, hands gripping the side so tight they turned absolutely bloodless, as opposed to just grey, as they had been all day.

 

He fought to keep the bile in his stomach, practiced in doing so, as his body rejected the contents of the flask from earlier - there was nothing natural about what he was consuming; it was definitely not meant to be drunk, and absolutely not on the frequent basis Spot was consuming it on. He had stock for a month, one a day, in the morning when he woke up, like a tonic, but there were certain days, like when he had to deal with Manhattan trespassers, or when someone brought up card games or dice, or earlier, when he’d met Race, that he’d had to call for an emergency dosage of the foul, bitter-tasting, viscous liquid, just to be able to make it through the day. But then he usually ended up hunched over his sink for an hour, trying to keep it inside him. Most days he managed to prevent himself from vomiting it all up, but today was not going to be one of those days.

 

Wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, he stared down at what his gut had pitched up. Amidst the puddle of bile and everything else from his stomach floated the usual dried up, shrivelled petals which he coughed up from time to time, along with other dead plant debris, but what made his heart really stop was the bright, vivid red of several _fresh_ petals.

“No...” Spot whispered, quickly scrabbling for the tap to wash away the evidence, but the sanguine colour was burned into his vision. This couldn’t be happening, the stuff was supposed to kill whatever was inside him that was making him die, it couldn’t suddenly _stop working_ , he had Brooklyn to run, he couldn’t leave it now, when it was at its peak.

 

He was out of the lodging house a few minutes later, cane in hand, knife firmly in his pocket alongside, a steady grip on its handle. Despite the late hour, he manoeuvred the streets easily in the dark, coming up to the space where he had met the figure earlier. He banged the head of his cane on the pile of wooden crates to his right, making a racket. Then, when the figure emerged, he stepped forward in a flash, backing him up against the wall, knife pressing into his gut and the head of his cane tucked neatly under his chin, baring his throat.

“Yous said it would work,” the King spat, teeth bared, and despite the height difference, very much had the advantage. “Yous said it would stop what growin’ in me.”

“It does, I swear!” the man nodded furiously, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed nervously, completely at Spot’s mercy.

“Then why’s it not workin’, huh? Why’s I got som’thin’ livin’ in me ‘gain?”

“I don’t know, I swear, I- I’ll get you something stronger.”

“Now,” Spot growled, and the man nodded.

“Yeah, yeah, now, jus’- jus’ lemme go an’ I’ll go get it.”

“I’s comin’ too,” Spot grunted, and let the man down, though he kept his knife out, and at the back of his dealer.

 

It didn’t take long with the added incentive of not getting gutted for the man to source some stronger stuff, bottle it up, and give some powder for Spot to tip into the other bottles he had back at the lodging house to make them just as strong. Spot nodded gratefully, and flicked the man a bit of coin.

“But if I’s findin’ it’s not workin’, you’s gonna be dead in the ditch ‘fore mornin’,” he warned, then raised a hand in farewell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There were some questions about what Spot took, I hope this explains it (kind of?) and if it's still not clear for you, let me know, I'll outline it specifically, what I had in my mind, here, next chapter! <3


End file.
